The Last Laugh
by skyebugs
Summary: My entry for the summer ficathon, made it under the wire. Written for Catherine Chen.


**Yes, unbelievably it is the 31****st**** of August and I am submitting the first chapter of my ficathon entry. It shouldn't (and probably doesn't) come as a surprise, though; I am much like the proverbial grasshopper. My apologies to all the ants, and my gratitude to one ant in particular that put up with all my crap this month.**

**A story with a similar starting point has been posted last week. My apologies to its author for going through with this, it has not been inspired by her story; I had the idea and been working on it for some time as some of you know and it also has been mentioned (call it an inside joke) in a fic I have cowritten, two weeks ago- Over the Hill. But by all means read her story and enjoy them both. I am sure they will diverge a lot after this first chapter. **

**I have borrowed a couple of paragraphs from MM, mainly to indicate the exact moment I pick up the thread from the book. This starts the day before the jail scene (first part) and then jumps to after the jail scene (last two parts). **

It hadn't been love at first sight. Not even for him, though, from the two, he had without question been the first to love, and most certainly not for her.

No, he had not fallen in love with her at their first encounter, but he couldn't deny the brief, acute enthrallment that had seized him when his eyes first met her—lively and vibrant as she was descending the stairs of a rural Georgia plantation, the only one uninterested, almost openly defiant in the crowd that had swarmed to greet him, the stranger there. And, shortly after, that enthrallment would rise and bloom despite his better judgment, for the turn of events would reveal her as a woman of rare and inflammable spirit, a woman the likes of which he had rarely, if ever, seen before.

He had been too caught up in their sparring match, the first of many to follow over the years, to appreciate every detail of the show while in its midst. But, after he left Clayton County that evening, his commission successfully completed, he replayed the scene before his eyes, letting reluctant admiration fill him at the memory. How she had so easily gone from mild indignation when he disrupted what was supposed to be a private, intimate moment at the house he was visiting, to hurling heated insults at him—insults that no well-bred person would utter—when his words added to the mere insolence of his presence there. How her eyes were glittering dangerously when she left, how her double chin was wobbling, how her nostrils were flaring in anger and indignation.

It had been this contrast, between the commanding tenderness he witnessed her bestow on another and the disdain she had showed for him the previous moment, what insured her constant presence in his mind during the next months. Try as he might, he wasn't able to completely erase her from his thoughts. Her face returned to haunt him at night, he twitched at every infrequent mention of her name, and, to his complete dismay, he even caught himself grinning foolishly while walking on the street one day. He had remembered how fierce she'd looked when yelling at him...

It was strange that he would be so taken with her. Not only that in his entire life he had never felt this drawn to a woman, but he was what one could term a man of the world, while she—she was just a country girl, whose concept of world didn't go further than the limits of one, maybe two counties. He had traveled quite extensively for someone in his position; he had even been as far as Mexico—traveled outside the country that was. She would later tell him that she had also visited other cities, that she was well acquainted with Savannah and that her mother's family came from the exotic shores of Haiti. But he had lacked that information at first, and it was only natural for him to assume that the only life she knew was that of a backwoods plantation. So what was there so fascinating about this rude, unrefined person that she continued to occupy his thoughts to such a degree, one might wonder.

It was the fact that, even from that brief, memorable first encounter, he had known they were alike, cut from the same cloth. They were both people who liked to rule over others, to have absolute control of their surroundings; people who would not shy in bullying anyone that could be bullied; people who were not afraid to speak their minds. So he continued to harbor, despite himself, the hope that somehow he will see her again.

And it may not have been love at a second sight either, but nonetheless he had been delighted to see her again. What luck for him, that Scarlett and her servant would come to Atlanta. His dark eyes lighted with an incredulous, joyful flame at seeing her. The contrast between black and white, between her skin and headwear, was most becoming and he couldn't keep a wide, catlike smile from splitting his face. And then Scarlett had to break the silence in a loud, excited tone, "Run get Auntie's swoon bottle, Peter! It's really me!"

He reluctantly took his eyes off Mammy and addressed a warm, if more reserved smile to her mistress. "It sho wuz time you comes ter 'Lanta, Miss Scarlett. Miss Pitty gwine ter be mighty happy ter see you."

It was with the energy and trepidation of a much younger man that he took Scarlett's bag from Mammy and led them into the house. But then, as all good things are bound to come to their timely—or less than timely, in this particular set of circumstances—end, Uncle Peter's hopes, having soared to impressive heights after months of anticipation, were to receive a cold shower that very afternoon.

They were in the kitchen, all three of them—him, Cookie and Mammy—the women preparing supper and chattering idly between chores; him sitting grumpily and ignored on a chair in the corner, cleaning an old harness and pretending not to listen.

"Does you know our Uncle Peter, Mammy?" Cookie asked candidly, as if the old man was not even in the room.

"Yas," came Mammy's curt, grumbling reply, not inviting further conversation on the topic.

"But whar has you met?" pressed dim-witted Cookie, oblivious to Mammy's trademark surly inflections.

"Well, yo' Uncle Peter come ter Tara wid a letter fer Miss Melly, frum Mist' Ashley, dat he wuz comin' home. An' you knows Miss Melly well's Ah does. She ain' got no more strent in her lil bones dan one of dem birds; Ah ain't never seen no lady dat weak, not even mah Miss Ellen, Gawd rest her soul," Mammy carried on with obvious zeal in recounting the details of the embarrassing incident.

"So she wuz tremblin' lak a leaf an' dis wuthless fool hyah," she paused emphatically, seeing from the corner of her eye how Uncle Peter's lower lip had gradually protruded throughout her speech, "Ah says, dis fool hyah come wid a face lak he wuz wid de unnertakers an' done sceered her. An' den Miss Melly, she done fainted an' de ole fool—"

At this point, the old fool left the kitchen with all the dignity his stiff back could convey, frowning at the snorts of laughter that came from the two women. He had been so wrong. In his mind, that day had been dressed in the colors of fond remembrance, but now he could see it clearly again and recall why he had been annoyed by Mammy in the first place. She was not even worth him defending himself and his wounded pride. She was only a woman and an ignorant plantation slave, so he would not lower himself to offer explanations for his conduct. Like many men before him, Uncle Peter had just experimented the pain of watching his Dulcinea turn into a peasant.

But the worst was yet to follow. The next morning, Cookie had fixed them an early, frugal breakfast in the kitchen, for Mammy and Peter were to accompany Pittypat to Mrs. Bonnell's. To bring Mammy along was an idea Uncle Peter had persuasively presented to his mistress the day before, not suspecting that his feelings on the matter would change. Miss Pitty would undoubtedly make a very good companion for her friend, he had cunningly conceded, but she had so little experience in nursing sick people; she would only work herself into a "state". The best solution under the circumstances was to bring Scarlett's old and wise servant to tend to the physical needs of the ill, while Pitty tended to the spiritual ones, as a lady should.

And, since the "old and wise servant" was late to make her appearance in the kitchen that morning, Peter offered to go bring her while Cookie served her mistress breakfast. Full with a sense of self-importance, he cleared his throat and knocked at the door of the small room by the stairs that had been allocated to Mammy. This was a morning of new beginnings, and, if they had started off on the wrong foot the previous day, this was the time for him to set it right and show her that he was the better person, that he held no grudges for her inadequate behavior. He was thoroughly ashamed of his immature expectations in the last months; he could scarcely believe that a man of his age and (unquestionable) dignity had been capable of such foolish musings. Well, he was cured now and he had every intention of cohabiting peacefully and uneventfully with Scarlett's servant for the duration of her stay. Receiving no answer to his knocking, Peter pushed the door open and stopped short, skirting a heart attack.

To best and most succinctly describe what happened next is to say that Hell hath no fury like Mammy seen in her chemise and petticoats…

And so it had been in a very strained atmosphere that the preparations for visiting Mrs. Bonnell were made. In actual fact, only Scarlett's adamant stand on the issue had made Mammy accompany them in the end. She went upstairs to collect some of Pittypat's things and then she mounted on the driver's seat beside Peter, casting him a ferocious look and muttering under her breath about what's proper and about old indecent fools. Peter shrank as far as possible to the other end of the seat, keeping his eyes stiffly fastened on the rump of the skinny horse they had borrowed for this occasion.

It was only when they were too far from the brick house for it to matter that the old lady whom Peter still considered a plump little girl remembered herself and started in a plaintive tone. For, caught up in their own sentimental problems, they had unwittingly left behind an item that was about to change the course of more than one life: Pittypat's only pair of gloves.

*******

The sky was bleak and dirty; the rain—hard and biting; the woman—triumphant and glowing.

As she stepped down the stairs of the Yankee headquarters, Scarlett appraised the public square stretching in front of her with the gleaming eyes of a conqueror coming to lay claim on the fruits of their victory. To the unaware observer, this kingdom might have seemed of the grimmest sort—drowned as it was in gray tones of light, already at noon, and overwhelmed by the browns of the mud—but for her the scene was perfect, because every corner of the deserted streets, every shabby Yankee hut seemed to reflect and sing back her triumph.

She started briskly down Washington Street, welcoming both the sharp rain that was already penetrating Pittypat's thin cloak, and the gusts of wind that drove hard into her cheeks and agitated the drooping feathers of her bonnet, as one would welcome and take pleasure in an invigorating drink. She walked easily, carelessly, almost floating over puddles, over missing bricks in the sidewalk, shivering with odd delight every time the cold water pressed her petticoats and pantalets against her ankles, and stopping only briefly to retrieve her shoes from the sticky mud.

She should have worried more, because this green velvet dress was her only proper costume and she would surely need it the next time she went to visit Rhett in jail. But right now she couldn't think about that, because her heart was swelling and leaping with satisfaction and all worries seemed to fade away, ridiculous and minuscule. She felt like singing and dancing as she went along, and, if she could have made it home barefoot, she would have abandoned the old slippers that, heavy with mud, were slowing her glorious march.

She smiled through parted lips, as in front of her eyes, instead of the street's disheartening ruins—tokens from Sherman's army, rose the image of Tara. Tara, that she was now sure she would be able to save; Tara that had already eluded the grim fate of these houses once during the war and would now escape the Yankees' greedy hands for a second time.

But the future looked even brighter than that, because not only that she would be able to keep her home, but she had every intention, and the potential means, to restore it to its previous glory. First she would take care of the crops, revive the plantation and make sure that poverty and hunger were chased away for good, she dreamily decided. And, once everyone there had their needs and wishes met, then she could finally wipe clean all the signs that still told of war, hardships and loss. She would order furniture and paintings and rugs, identical with the ones she had grew surrounded with, but free of the signs bayonets, spurs or simple wear had imprinted on those. She would even replace Ellen's green velvet curtains—she thought with a small snort of laughter, looking down at the clammy folds of her dress.

And all these dreams were to come into reality once she became Mrs. Rhett Butler.

Her pace faltered a little and a pensive frown made its way to her forehead, as she remembered last night's thoughts. She had mused on how fortunate it would be if she managed to marry Rhett while he was in prison and then be left a widow, through the Yankees' generous interference. But now that he had actually been in front of her eyes, as tall and strong as ever and radiating vitality, seeing him at the end of a rope had somewhat diminished its appeal. Oh, what difference would it make anyway? He could live—she shrugged magnanimously. To be Rhett Butler's widow without having been his wife was undoubtedly the best gift fate could bestow on a woman, but maybe—just maybe—being married to him would not prove that disastrous either. Not if he was as nice to her as he had ultimately been today.

_His black head had been bent over her hands and, as she watched, he lifted one and kissed it through the soft, creamy fabric of the glove, and, taking the other, laid it against his cheek for a moment. Expecting violence, this gentle and loverlike gesture startled her. She wondered what expression was on his face but she could not tell for his head was bowed. _

_She quickly lowered her gaze lest he should look up suddenly and see the expression on her face. She knew that the feeling of triumph surging through her was certain to be plain in her eyes. In a moment he would ask her to marry him—or at least say that he loved her and then… As she watched him through the veil of her lashes he turned her hand over, palm up, and his fingers started to slowly remove her glove._

"Surely, it can't be Miss Scarlett!"

Her head shot up at the sound of the familiar voice and she saw Frank Kennedy, peering at her over the tarpaulin of his buggy. Lost in her thoughts, Scarlett had not heard the sound of hooves to precede the vehicle's approach, but she was quick to bestow one of her most dazzling smiles upon old, whiskered Frank Kennedy as she made her way to the center of the road, splashing through the mud. Truth be said, she would have cast the same beaming look to Abraham Lincoln himself—and the physical resemblance between the two men was not unnoticeable—had he been alive and driving a buggy down Atlanta's streets. She was in one of those states of mind that make one very inclined to smile at the entire world with no reason in particular, and, besides, the prospect of not having to walk all the way to Aunt Pittypat's house held its certain appeal too.

She allowed Frank to help her into the buggy and fuss over her, rearranging the tarpaulin and passing her the lap robe. The incessant, vaguely annoying sound of his voice, as he was asking question after question about their mutual acquaintances, didn't quite reach her though. She only mumbled automatic responses, hoping he would continue to chatter by himself all the way to Aunt Pitty's. And as Frank was bragging about the shoulder wound he got for joining the army at the eleventh hour—just like Rhett, she thought briefly, Scarlett allowed her mind to return to the previous events of the day.

_She could feel his fingers on her wrist; in a moment the glove would be off and then Rhett would kiss the bare skin of her hand and she suddenly recalled—with surprising, disturbing intensity—the warmth of his lips against her racing pulse, that night on Aunt Pitty's porch. But it only lasted a moment, because she couldn't afford any mistakes now, and a vague instinct told her that his gesture was leading them down a dangerous path. She subtly withdrew from his grasp by taking his hand between her slender hands in the perfect semblance of an affectionate, feverish impulse. _

_If he wasn't going to talk first, then she would, she decided without a moment's hesitation. She hadn't come this far, faced the bluecoats to visit him and managed to admirably serve her little embellished story, to allow one moment of awkward silence to deter her. It had to be now or never. _

_She leaned even closer towards him and started in a whispering, straining voice—a voice that had the rare accomplishment of being just as suited to express both the shyness of first love, and the pathos of old, unrequited passions. _

"_What I mean is that I—I could not live another minute if you died. You mean too much for me. I didn't know it before, but I know it now. I've known it ever since I heard Auntie's news about you." _

_Her speech, rushed and broken by pauses, was meant to show her slightly incoherent in the fierceness of her feelings, but underneath the mask of ardor she was more alert and concentrated than she had ever been. She was like a virtuoso touching the keys of a piano with uncanny swiftness and art—every strangled word and every hesitation a perfectly executed note—no effort transparent in the final product of their performance. _

"_Last night, after I went to bed, I couldn't stop thinking about—about you and about why I felt this," she faltered, as if shyly looking for the right word, "pain. And then it came to me. Because—every since I met you, you've been there for me when I needed you. You were there during the war. And you—you understood me like no one else did."_

_Damn him to hell, why didn't he say anything? She had expected him to interrupt her, to match her passionate discourse with one of his own, but he remained with his head bent over their joined hands, in silence. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but she knew he was listening with painful concentration; it was obvious in his unmoving poise. _

_And then he suddenly straightened up in his chair and his face was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes bore into hers with such intensity that she felt her throat go dry. A fleeting thought passed through her mind, the certainty that if ever he found out she had lied, he would snap her neck, and suddenly she wished she hadn't started this in the first place. She wished she could take her words back and get out of this room, get as far away from this man as possible. Oh, if only she could afford that luxury, if only she had another choice. _

_But no, she couldn't be a silly, frightened goose now and lose everything. After all, men had looked at her like that before. Well, maybe not exactly like that, but close anyway. And there was no need for Rhett to ever know the truth. For some reason, now that she had partially pulled the wool over his eyes, Scarlett had come to the disputably wise conclusion she could successfully repeat the trick for the rest of their lives... _

_Surprisingly, when Rhett spoke, his voice had lost the feverish note, it was his old mocking, hard-to-decipher tone again, "It's flattering to hear you say that, Scarlett; I won't deny it. But, alas, as much as it—how shall I put it—quenches my long thirsting ego, I don't remember it quite this way. On the contrary, I seem to remember you being quite repulsed by my… charming self at that time." _

"_Oh no, that is not true, Rhett," she hurried to say, with a note of impatience creeping in her voice. "You know it's not."_

Wrong. _She had stepped_ _directly into the trap she only belatedly realized he had set. Her small twitch at his words and the speed with which she had denied an obvious truth hadn't gone unnoticed by Rhett. Something akin to curiosity flickered in his pupils for a second and when it died it took with it the small flame that had both unsettled and heartened her before. _

_Oh, Lord, don't let this small slip mean the end of everything, she fervently thought. She should have waited for him to make the first step, instead of throwing herself at him like that, but they had been so close and she had simply lost her patience, waiting for a kiss that never came. She had never in her life gone so far in declaring love to any man; well, if one didn't count Ashley, and that, in any case, had been so different. _

_The Belle of Clayton County would never have done something this blatant, but the truth was that all the obstacles she had had to fight against these last years had changed Scarlett. She didn't have the time and she didn't have the patience to flutter her eyelashes half an hour in exchange for a single word from the man in front of her. It was one of the things she had lost without realizing—the slow, intricate art of flirting._

_And besides, Rhett's initial responses had been so encouraging she had thought she wouldn't need too many charming tricks to secure the victory. He had seemed genuinely pleased to see her and more than interested in her confessions. No, she was certain he returned her feelings—her supposed feelings; that was—he just had to. Was he putting her to the test then? He must be if he had felt the need to set traps to check her words. Of course, Rhett being Rhett would want to bite the gold coin before accepting it as payment; she had been an idiot to think otherwise, and now she had to repair that mistake before it was too late. _

"_Well, all right," she simpered and managed to blush the pretty color of one caught with one little, innocent fib. "You were a nasty devil most of the time, I'll admit it. You can be the worst varmint, if you set your mind to it; there's no doubt about that. But I know you didn't really mean it, Rhett."_

_Her hand moved to rest on his forearm and she smiled her sweetest smile at him, as she silently wished him a painful eternity in hell. It seemed to work for some of the warmth returned to his eyes. _

"_Call me a stupid, blind fool, but I've never realized just how much you did for me. But it's so clear now, that I wonder how could I miss it before. And it even makes sense why I enjoyed your company so much—"_

_Rhett's teeth flashed in the dim light as he smiled. "Now, Scarlett," he said in teasing incredulity "since when have you enjoyed my company _that_ much?"_

"_Oh, I have always enjoyed your company," she started hesitantly, taking a deep breath before her grand moment of truth "but—but before I—I just couldn't explain that feeling to myself. And now I can." _

_The meaning hung tangible and still in the air between them. She had said her part, now it was all in God's—and Rhett's—hands. _

_Rhett was looking at her without flinching, without blinking, without even breathing it seemed, as if he was trying to read the truth from her face and eyes. He was looking at her with the expression of intense scrutiny one would examine a banknote for any signs of counterfeit, and if only he knew how close to the truth that pecuniary comparison really was. _

_Don't flinch; don't blink; don't move. Don't look away from him. It's all for Tara and Ashley. It's for Ashley; think of Ashley; look at him as you would look at Ashley. She couldn't remember Ashley's face, and for a moment panic swept through her, before she clung to the next resort. Tara. Tara that was home; Tara and the green fields in spring and the smell of the earth, and the rows of cotton in the sunset. Tara—the name filled her eyes with the light Rhett had been searching for and she heard him draw a sharp breath, before saying in a voice so quiet she could barely recognize as his, _

"_You mean you love me?" _

_This was it. She had won; he would have never asked that, had he not been sure of the answer. There was one thing left to do—to confirm what he had already read in her face; and then, then she was free to use the indefinable promises his voice held however it suited her best._

"_Yes. Yes, I love you," she said squaring her jaw and her eyes glinted, the color of the greenbacks she was hoping to secure. _

_She had been bracing herself for another hard stare to assess her sincerity, but instead of that she was on her feet, abruptly, without warning. He'd swept her from the chair, and his arms were around her; her own trapped limp against his chest. _

"_You are saying the truth?" came Rhett's question, almost containing its own answer. _

_He was gazing intently into her eyes again, and she found she no longer had to think of Tara to maintain a reasonably dazed look. He seemed satisfied with whatever he'd read there, for he bent her head back and kissed her, and, had Scarlett been in a more reflective state of mind at the moment, she would have thought how good it was that his kisses were making her weak and warm and trembling, and she didn't have to fake those emotions as well. _

_He was kissing her in this inappropriate setting, and his lips, moving lingeringly along her jaw line before returning to her mouth, made her as oblivious to the presence of Yankee soldiers outside the door as he seemed to be. It was just as it had been that night at Rough and Ready, except that this was more than just surrender on her part, because, she vaguely realized, she was clinging to him and kissing him back. _

_And then, as unexpectedly as it had started, it was over. Rhett stopped and pulled away reluctantly to peer at her face in the semi-darkness, and she realized that at some point she had started to cry. Her cheeks were wet. _

"_Now, what is there to cry about?" he asked in the gentlest voice she'd ever heard him use, despite its discernible teasing inflection. _

_What was there to cry about indeed? Part of her tears stemmed from the struggle and emotions of the last hours—they were the tears of triumph and nervous discharge of a runner crossing the finishing line, of a soldier making it to safety through the enemy's fire. But the other part came from simply being in Rhett's arms and knowing she could afford a small moment of weakness now because her burden had been passed to him and he would take care of everything. Unintentionally and unknowingly, but he would nonetheless. And, while Scarlett was only dimly conscious of all the reasons that had triggered her tears, she was acutely aware of the fact she couldn't offer any truth as an answer to his question. _

"_They—they are not really going to hang you, Rhett, are they?" she lamely managed to stammer instead. _

_Rhett pressed her head hard against his shoulder, laughing in her hair—a laugh that sounded ridiculously relieved considering they were discussing his death. _

"_If that's all, my dear girl, then no. Not if I have a word to say about it, no. And if I lived to hear this, it would seem quite a waste to die any time soon, don't you think?" _

_She only nodded meekly, as he seated her back in the chair and squatted in front of it, his hand resting over hers in the green velvet folds. An awkward silence settled for the second time that day, and Scarlett, having played her one wild card, was at a loss as to the next move. She had declared love and in return he had kissed her, which on all accounts was a good sign, but still not the confession she had been waiting for. She sighed lightly, venting frustration at Rhett's opacity and following the instinct that told her a sigh was most becoming for a lady in such distressful circumstances. _

_Apparently, her instinct had been right, for Rhett looked sharply up into her face and broke the silence, in a warm tone. "I'd suggest you stopped this crying business now, Scarlett. I—" he laughed as if almost embarrassed, "I do not have a handkerchief." _

_She kept her gaze lowered, sniffing silently, and fighting back a smile of triumph when she felt the back of his hand brushing lightly against her cheek._

"_Come on, darling, they are not going to get their hands on me, in the end. Stop this silliness." _

"_Oh, Rhett—it's not only that," she said softly, without rejecting his touch. _

"_What is it then?" _

"_Well, I—I," she flustered and blushed. "I know you said that you do not—well, that you don't feel—that way. And I'm not expecting you to—to—change your mind about…that. But—Oh, what you must think of me now!"_

_His hand dropped from her face and rested on her knee again. _

"_What I think of you? I think you have always been a little short sighted, and the proverbial blind feeling seems to have done little to improve that. My dear, I thought that even if I admittedly didn't give myself away before, you would have certainly known the truth after that night on the road near Rough and Ready." _

"_The truth?" she stuttered, with bated breath. _

"_Yes, the truth. I meant what I said that night, Scarlett."_

_Her heart had started a mad double rhythm and she knew that victory was shining in her eyes, clear for him to see, and she didn't even have to disguise it, for it was the right feeling now. _

"_Oh?" she leaned forward and put her hands lightly on his shoulders._

_He smiled briefly at her before elaborating. "Like I maintained then, you are conceited, and stubborn beyond measure, and morally inadequate enough to not give a damn about anyone else as long as you can get your way. In other words, you don't possess a single conventional quality; well, at least not in a spiritual way," he grinned impertinently, letting his eyes roam over her frame before returning to her face._

"_Oh!" _

_Fury rose inside her as his words registered, and for a moment she was on the verge of forgetting herself and uttering all the insults he so fully deserved. She changed color and made a move to draw back, but Rhett was faster, and placed his hand over hers on his shoulder, effectively trapping her in place. _

"_My dear, do let me finish. What I am trying to say is that you are just as much of a rascal as I am. You are the only woman I've ever encountered who's cut from the same disreputable cloth I am. And I love you because of it."_

"_You love me?" It was her turn to ask cautiously, half expecting him to continue with another quip._

"_Yes, I love you, Scarlett, for all the reasons stated above and a few trivial others I won't bore you with now," he smiled. _

_He had done the unbelievable; she realized, astonished despite her expectations; he had said the words. He had said them loud and clear and there was no way for him to take them back or twist their meaning. She had him now, and the electric feeling of triumph at this thought spread through her body, giving her eyes such a wild luminosity that Rhett's composed smile vanished, replaced by an equally predatory, fierce look. _

"_I love you," he continued in a different, almost rough tone," and I have waited so long for this day that you have to be a fool to think any rope the Yankees may or may not have for me will keep me from you. I thought it was more likely for it never to come; that you would never grow up and you would rather let go of your life than of your sacred love for Wilkes. And yet, here you are—the flesh and bone confirmation for my Nihil desperandum maxim. It truly makes it worthy to be imprisoned to hear you say this."_

_She managed to wave dismissively at the mention of Ashley's name, though her heart had lurched at it, and she hurried to change the subject. _

"_Oh, Rhett—don't joke about things like this. You have to get out of here. You have to, and you will, and then—"_

_She leaned forward, closer to his face, as if encouraging him to kiss her, but, to her surprise, Rhett quickly jumped to his feet, and took two steps back. Seconds after that, like he had anticipated, the door opened swiftly, with a cold draft, and the Yankee officer grumbled "Butler!" to signal the end of the visit. Scarlett rose from her chair, startled and disappointed at this untimely interruption, and took Rhett's hand as the Yankee was leading him to the exit. _

"_You'll come again?" he asked squeezing her hand so hard she was sure there were tears glistering in her eyes. She couldn't muster any words, so she only nodded fiercely, and, with all the commotion, heard him say, "I'll be waiting for you", before he was out of the room. _

***

That night, sitting in front of the vanity in her room, Scarlett sighed for the last time at the adverse fate that had interrupted their tête-à-tête just when it was about to reach the topic that most interested her. And since it was not in her nature to dawdle over minor misfortunes, especially not after achieving such an invigorating victory, she then proceeded to unravel and analyze all the details of her plan with the same steady meticulousness she put in brushing her long hair for the night. As she laid out her next campaign, the difficulties seemed to rise one after another, like small, incessant waves diverting a boat from its course. How to recondition the dress to its former velvet glory, how to escape Mammy's notice a second time…

Mammy had been uncharacteristically quiet that night, as if her mind was occupied with something else while she has helping her young mistress out of her clothes. But Scarlett harbored no illusions; the black woman was sure to revert to her inquisitorial self in no time, and it would be impossible to sneak out of the house again. If only she could manage to convince Mammy to return to Tara. Frank Kennedy could take her with him, for Scarlett was sure he would hurry to Clayton County soon.

She laughed silently remembering Frank's face when she'd told him earlier, at the Elsings, that Tony Fontaine was courting her sister and that one of these days Suellen might get tired of waiting and simply accept her younger suitor. Her gesture hadn't been born out of sisterly camaraderie, but merely the wish to get rid of Suellen earlier than spring and force the old maid in britches out of his usual procrastination. And it had fully reached its target. Frank would hurry to Tara now, and, if God allowed it, she could be free of Mammy too when that happened.

And then all it would take was for her to manage to keep up her lies with Rhett…

A heady warmth—not unlike the one alcohol instilled in her—seized her mind and body, as she abruptly remembered his confession. He said he had waited so long for her words, and that could only mean one thing. He must have been in love with her for years now. Oh, if the problem she had to settle with his help hadn't been so pressing, how she would have enjoyed tormenting him for that. She would have made him jump through all the hoops her coquetry could devise, and then discard him without a second glance—another negligible, worn out accessory among last season's trinkets. But as it was she had no alternative than to continue with this charade until she had the ring on her finger. And, though she was aware that marriage could give her superior instruments of torture, she intended to be nothing but sweet to her new husband, out of gratitude and a sense of debt, and a few other feelings she had problems defining to herself.

"_Didn't I tell you I wasn't a marrying man?"_

The startling thought emerged out of nowhere. Could it be possible for a man to want her and love her, as she knew Rhett did, and still refuse to marry her? Well, if any man were capable of something like that, it would be Rhett. After all, he was in love with her when he asked her to be his mistress, during the siege, and he was in love with her when he abandoned her between two armies to face her fate and possible death alone. Love could be credited with a lot of qualities, but apparently being reason enough for Rhett Butler to treat a woman right wasn't among them.

But she would not let him have his way this time. If he didn't want to marry her, she would make him change his mind. She would force his hand and he would give in, eventually, because, between the two of them, he was the one that had the enormous disadvantage of being in love. Her eyes glittered gleefully as an idea began to form in her scheming mind. What was good enough to fool Frank Kennedy could, with a little effort on her part, be good enough to fool Rhett Butler...

She breathed in, filled with anticipation and a deep sense of satisfaction. Ever since she had fled Atlanta, that blazing, crimson night, she had been fighting against countless faceless obstacles, the sort of trials that enveloped you like fog and drained your strength in pointless struggles; impenetrable stonewalls one could not even start to dent, let alone tear down. How she wished hunger or poverty were men and she could kill them or charm them into complying with her wishes, as the case might be. She was confident of her ability to win any open confrontation. The last time she had been face to face with an equally armed enemy—the Yankee deserter—he had literally succumbed to her power. Love and death were two fields in which she stood fair chances. She would win this battle.

**Prompt to be used in one of the future chapters. **


End file.
